Cupid Lied
by lilkyonkyon
Summary: Love isn't bliss. It's not magical, warm, or familiar. Love is a bludger to the temple, a Cruciatus, a dragon ripping your heart to bits until it's nothing but a stain on the floor. So no, Draco wasn't enjoying it, thank you. DMHG unrequited. Oneshot.


So I've been working on this story for forever, and when I found on tumblr that JK had said that it was unrequited, I freaked out. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find it anywhere else, so I'm not sure if it happened. In any case, I was excited enough to post this. And I'm sticking to it.

Disclaimer: I don't own it, but I AM FANGIRLING RIGHT NOW. I love this couple so much, haha.

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**Cupid Lied**

Draco Malfoy loved her.

And he hated it.

Every minute, every hour of every day, because really, it was hard for someone who was abso-bloody-lutely head-over-heels for a girl like her to ever find a semblance of sanity in his life. One moment, he'd meet her eyes, and a wildfire would start inside of him from the tips of his hair to the bottom of his feet — and the next moment, he'd be one hundred percent numb, shouting over her taunts, nose to nose, incapable of focusing on anything except her and her stinging words. That's what he felt like all the time: a living dichotomy, wishing her pain and hating himself for it.

The most amazing thing to him was that she didn't have a bloody _clue_ what he was feeling. She called him evil, she called him cruel, but he wasn't really either, not truly. He just acted like he was, you know, since he was expected to, since his mother and father had taught him to be that way from the cradle. Sometimes, those words that she hissed at him came too close to the truth for comfort. It was as if she were blindly tossing darts at a target, and he could never show how much it frightened him, not once, even when an insult she threw came dangerously close to the bull's-eye:

He envied her presence.

Longed for her attention.

In short, he adored her.

Before, in his first year, it had been so much easier to call her names, to shove her books off the table, to spill her ink in the library, to yank on one of those frizzes she called hair and laugh while she fumed to no one in particular, precisely because she had no one to fume _to_; she was friendless then. Easy prey and the like. His mates never questioned him — why he picked on the little muggleborn girl, so infatuated with her books and lessons. Neither did he.

Then she fell into _their_ company, and everything changed, because she began to fight back, to stand up to his quips with a single-minded determination to defend herself and those two friends of hers. She was changed because of them, and Draco was surprised at how livid he became by simply seeing them together, laughing and chatting without a care in the world. He did not realize it then, but it was the beginning of the end for him.

He was already falling by that point. As time passed, it became harder and harder for him to be _that person_ around her, that person he'd been raised to be; Draco noticed how truly awful she felt after he teased her, and he infinitely preferred taking her abuse than offending her, contrary to how he acted and whatever he'd been told. Then there was one day when she stood up to him for her sodding mate; his temper snapped, and he hissed something he promised himself he'd never mention in front of her: "Mudblood." It just burst from his lips, unanticipated, yet as natural as blood from a wound, and everyone around him had laughed and laughed.

To him, the funny thing was she didn't _understand_ what it meant, the same way a puppy wouldn't truly understand a scolding, and even though he joined in their merriment, he began to feel this niggling thing in the back of his mind whenever he caught her bewilderedly hurt eyes. It was guilt. Guilt, over what _he_ said to _her_. He'd never felt it before then.

After that day, though, Draco felt it whenever he spoke to her with that disdainful tone of voice. He felt guilty when she tripped in the hallways, when he saw her chasing after those two oafs she called friends. He was guilty because he _fancied_ her. He'd realized it too late, though, and now she had gotten herself mixed up with people that he couldn't stand, and gained a reputation that made him cringe. He lashed out at her instead, becoming more daring with his abuse, until one day she broke down and socked him right across the jaw. It was the first time they had ever touched. Despite what he had been told, Draco didn't feel dirty from her contact. He felt refreshed. Liberated. For a moment, he allowed himself to consider her, this girl with enormous front teeth and a wild tangle of brown hair that would stand toe-to-toe with anyone that crossed her. He was in over his head. So he decided to distance himself from her, as much as he could. He walked away.

But his feelings remained the same, even grew, despite his valiant efforts to despise her, to push her away. Now, whenever he saw her, that "tingling" that people in love often boasted about turned into a full-body jolt, causing him to leap about a foot in the air whenever he caught sight of a stray curl or a flash of a red and gold badge. He'd make an excuse of nerves, or stress, or other such nonsense, and the fools around him believed his words. Nervously, he waited for the day when someone would see through his lies, but it never came. In the meantime, she grew and matured before his very eyes. Her teeth, once so prominent, shrank back. She seemed to brush her hair more often; at least it didn't look capable of ensnaring small wildlife. Everything about her seemed to get better.

Even her effect on him. If she passed too close, his stomach would give a nervous twist, and he'd almost get sick all over the floor. She'd taken to ignoring him — he didn't know if that was better or worse, because even though he wouldn't have to hurt her, sometimes he yearned for her acknowledgement: yes, he was a person, he did exist, thank you very much, but not a word that passed her lips was meant for him. That is, unless he baited her with a cruel glance or word, but sometimes the vision of her left him breathless. Draco never was able to figure out why people bragged about their breathlessness upon seeing a girl. He hated it. His oxygen source would cut off unexpectedly, as if he'd fallen into a pool of tepid water, and it took everything to break the surface. He'd be left wheezing for air, his body doubled over, his face most likely red with the effort. And she'd _laugh_ at him. He almost hated that more — the twist of those lips, the ones he constantly craved to have pressed against his but _never would be_, and the sound of her voice saying his name with so much scorn, the same way he said hers, because he wasn't allowed to say her name any other way.

After a summer of utter torture, he returned to Hogwarts only to find that she was everywhere. In the hallway. In every class. Anywhere he looked, really. It drove him mad. How could she pursue him with such success? The girl seemed to place herself directly between him and his mission, pointing her obnoxiously moral finger at his past transgressions and telling him off, just by striding across his path, refusing to meet his eyes. He almost backed out of his duties to the Dark Lord countless times, each one because the thought of her disappointment was unbearable. Intolerable. When the time came for him to kill, he held back those two unforgivable words, and he ran away. It was all for her.

During what should have been his seventh year at Hogwarts, his love only compounded with her absence, and life turned into a continuous yearning for her, and a fear for himself. What would happen when they found out? He was rubbing shoulders with the innermost members of the Dark Lord's circle, ones that wouldn't hesitate to kill him — to kill _her_. Fortunately, Draco saw everything unwind around him, and he knew that even though he hated her two mates, they were taking good care of her, and that she would be alright. The final battle proved as much.

He saw her then, for the first time in a year, and was entirely caught off-guard by her maturity and beauty. He wanted to hold her, to tell her things, to touch those curls and kiss her and give her anything she ever wanted just to see that stunning smile she had never directed at him. All of these thoughts rushed through his mind, distracting him to the point of forgetfulness — the sounds of hexes and explosions faded until all he heard was her name. Somehow, that frightened him more than the battle.

When it was over, when he was fleeing the castle, he saw her again, for the last time. She was standing at the edge of the lake, seemingly patrolling the border for danger. For people like him. He paused at the outskirts of the forest to watch her. She paced the shore, occasionally staring over the water at something that wasn't there. He didn't know how long he stayed hidden — he felt as if he could watch her until the end of the world — but he soon realized his feet were carrying him to her, as if by magic. He stopped when he was five feet from her, her back to him.

"Granger," he'd greeted her simply; he really didn't know what else to say, or even if he'd be able to squeeze out any other intelligible message besides _I love you_. Her body went rigid, and she whipped her head around to face him, her countenance pale, her wand pointed at him. When he made no move to attack or insult her, she merely replied, "Malfoy."

Their silence was an ocean.

"What do you want?" she began suspiciously.

He couldn't quite look her in the eye, so he settled for a nice patch of grass just above her shoulder. "I —"

Another voice called her name over the hill. The Weasel's voice. Draco involuntarily narrowed his eyes at the sound.

"I'll be right there!" she answered. To Draco, she repeated, "What do you _want_, Malfoy?"

"Nothing," he sneered, instantly cross. "Go run to your two little masters. I'm sure they'll reward you for being a good little mudblood." There, he'd used it again. A word that he'd reverted to whenever he spoke to her. It burned his tongue to say, and his eyes slid to her right hand, which was clenched.

But, for once, she didn't react the way he'd imagined. Instead, she sucked in a breath, and asked him a question. Draco stiffened. His eyes flew to hers in shock.

She'd finally thrown the right word. It hit the target straight on, stunning him to silence.

And she knew she'd found it, too.

"Jealous," she repeated, a breathy whisper. Her eyes were impossibly wide. "You're jealous."

_Yes, but please don't tell._

With one desperate, parting look, he ran. He liked to pretend he didn't look back.

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After reading this over for a quick edit, I realized that this is seriously something that COULD fit into the book. This makes me very excited somehow. Thanks for reading this! Tell me how you liked it in a review!


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